An honest attempt to answer the question
by Anne Abayasekara.

The question that sprang at me in bold black type on the front page of the Midweek Review of The Island of 30th April, 2008, was posed by Dr. Michael Roberts who put it thus: `How Does One BECOME Sinhalese or Tamil in Sentiment?` It not only caught my eye, it engaged my mind and has stayed with me for the past two months. I am neither an academic nor a scholar , just an ordinary citizen, one of millions in this country who feels deeply about the sad state of present-day Sri Lanka and the ongoing war that is surely destroying all of us, irrespective of what we call ourselves.

Dr. Roberts himself wrote out of concern for what he termed `the present impasse in the politics of Sri Lanka.` What he had to say was relevant to our condition and was worthy of serious consideration. So, while I have been reflecting on the issues raised by him, I have also kept an eye open for some response from even one or two readers of the same calibre as Dr. Roberts. I wonder whether he has been as disappointed as I that nobody at all has bothered to write even a Letter to the Editor on so pertinent a matter..

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, we are told. I am not `rushing in`, having cogitated at odd moments throughout all these weeks on the truth of the matter as it relates to myself.

`What makes you FEEL that you are a Sinhalese? How did you become Sinhalese? What made your parents think and feel themselves Sinhalese? And are you at the same time a Sri Lankan in sentiment? Or is the last question redundant in that `Sinhalese` is equivalent to `Sri Lankan`?` I took Dr. Roberts` questions seriously and the reason why I am putting my own findings about myself forward is that I think it is an exercise deserving our attention, whether we are Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim or Burgher.

When I look back to my childhood I see that, like most children whose parents don`t make a big thing of their race, I just accepted that I was a Sinhalese. In our little corner of the NWP where I was born in a village that was `gama` to both my parents, there weren`t other racial groups not any that came within my ken as a child, any way.

Everyone with whom I lived and moved was of the same race and spoke the same language. The village seemed to be composed largely of our kith and kin and when we went to church on a Sunday morning, the place was full of relatives. There were plenty of villagers around, of course, and I played with their children, all of whom were also obviously Sinhalese. I vaguely knew that they followed a different religion as there were two Buddhist temples bordering the coconut estate on which we lived, but in those days the fact that we belonged to a minority within the majority by virtue of being Christians, hadn`t seeped into my consciousness.

Then, when I was 5 years old, I was catapulted into an alien world in Colombo, the world of school. There, for the first time, I mingled with grown-ups and children of many different ethnic groups, some of them of different faiths and having a mother- tongue other than Sinhala, and some of them having a skin-colour different from mine. ..

It didn`t bother us small fry. English was the medium of instruction and many of us kindergartners struggled to learn the new language. All of us learned together and played together and any external differences in appearance were accepted. It takes a bigoted adult to instill in young children the idea that such differences matter.

When I reached the 4th standard at age 9, however, something happened that had an impact on me as a Sinhalese. We were introduced to a history book called `The Story of Lanka` by L.E. Blaze (the great educationist who founded Kingswood College, Kandy).

The chapters in it that I remember clearly after all these years, were those relating to King Dutu Gemunu. I was stirred. I became conscious that I was a Sinhalese and I admired Dutu Gemunu. I don`t know what effect it had on the Tamil girls in the class, because at 9 years of age you don`t appreciate the fact that there may be others who react differently to your hero and who might even perceive him as an enemy.

The girls and boys of my generation who grew up in schools with a very mixed student population were, I believe, very fortunate. While we may have spoken in different languages at home, English, the language of school, was definitely the link language for us all. If you spend the formative years from 5 to 17 or 18 in the one school, mingling from infancy with children of all communities, you are bound to make life-long friendships across race and religion. A bonding that stands the test of time is cemented without your realising it. This, perhaps, is the greatest benefit conferred on us by those schools.

In the higher forms, we were taught Ceylon history by an English teacher who didn`t really impart the `feel` of it to us. Growing up in a devout Protestant (Baptist) home where religion was accorded the highest place, I reached adolescence with a scant knowledge of the grandeur of Anuradhapura or the glory of Polonnaruwa. I had learned about King Kasyappa and the rock fortress of Sigiriya, with no concept of what a marvel it was. I was 20 when I read `Ceylon, Beaten Track` by W.J. Keble (a name highly respected by Thomians of an older vintage). This book by an Englishman opened my eyes to what I had missed in being unaware of much that gave my country its special

quality. And then, in 1947, I visited Polonnaruwa for the first time and was awe-struck by the shrines and monuments I saw. Never will I forget my first sight of the Gal Vihara at which I gazed spellbound. It seemed to me sublime. Everything about Polonnaruwa fascinated me. Those `Sinhala` feelings stirred within me again. As they did when I went to Anuradhapura and beheld the ancient places and wondrous ruins there. I climbed Mihintale and later, Sigiriya. I went to see the Aukana Buddha. In Kandy, I witnessed the grand spectacle of the Perahera for the first time. I visited the Dalada Maligawa and also walked the hot, dusty track that led to the Embekke Devala. You didn`t have to be a Buddhist to thrill to the splendid monuments and hallowed places.

Yet I have to confess that I have not been able to respond in the same way to what little I have seen of Hindu temples and sculpture. I hope my Hindu friends will pardon me when I say I had my attention drawn to phallic symbols standing amidst ruined devalas in Polonnaruwa, and to figures of the God Ganesh, and they left me cold. When I went to Kataragama with a large group, I couldn`t make myself enter the kovil along with the others. It seemed alien to me in a way that no Buddhist temple did, although all my Buddhist friends in the group eagerly entered in. My reluctance may have been due to some quirk in me.

Dr. Roberts mentions food sharing and funeral arrangements as providing `litmus tests` on cross-ethnic amity. He particularly talks of the Muslim custom of eating out of one dish. In a flash I recalled how at a Muslim wedding, we Sinhalese were greatly relieved that serving spoons were provided for us when all around us the Muslim guests dipped their hands into a common main dish. Does one`s inability to identify with some particular ritual or practice that is peculiar to members of another community, signify exclusiveness? Not necessarily, I would say, while granting that the `other` invariably appreciates any effort made by outsiders to emulate their customs as a matter of courtesy and delight shows in their eyes when we endeavour to speak their language, however poorly we may perform. But there are differences that can be accepted as just that `differences` and they don`t confer superiority or inferiority on one or the other, I do wince inwardly when I see a Muslim lady garbed in black from head to foot, with just two narrow slits at the eyes, and while I feel thankful that I do not have to comply with such a requirement myself, I see that mode of dress merely as a distinguishing mark of her religion and ethnicity.

Then there is the test of `marriages across ethnic boundaries`. In recent years this has been more common among Sinhala and Tamil Christians than Dr. Roberts appears to realise, for he observes only that there has been `some degree of inter-marriage along the Negombo-Chilaw coastline and in the sparsely populated dry zone jungles.` He also concedes that `in the slum and shanty areas in Colombo and among the jet-set elites such marriages seem to be greater than among the general populace.` It is a fact (although I don`t have any statistics to back me up), that mixed marriages between ordinary middle- class Sinhalese and Tamils and Burghers are not uncommon. Here, there is bonding through their common religion. When 3 of our children chose partners of the other community, it posed no problem to us. Having moved closely with Tamil friends since schooldays and also having always worshipped together with them in our churches, there was no barrier that we could see These marriages have lasted now for over 30 years and have enriched the lives of the families on both sides. I also remember the delightful Burgher lady who married a maternal uncle of mine, as one who was dearly loved and accepted by all her Sinhala in-laws, as he too was by her people.

There is one more acid test of ingrained attitudes and that is how people behave in times of national chaos and lawlessness as happened most unforgettably in 1983. In some instances, people who had maintained friendly relations with Tamil neighbours suddenly found the veneer of friendship ripped apart, leaving them to view the other with fear and suspicion and hostility. There were many `Sinhala Buddhists` whose humanity transcended any narrow exclusiveness and who gave succour and shelter to Tamils in distress. They acted like true Buddhists. There were also those who found it in thei...